“Okay Alisa… tell me what goes through your mind when your mother shrinks you,” the green-eyed lady asks. This is different than I expected. I had imagined I’d be lying on a couch, looking at the ceiling as she took notes… I guess that’s just a cliché. Instead, I’m seated in a chair directly across from Ms. Pattie, her red hair draping down her shoulders as she looks me square in the eyes.

I close my eyes for a moment. It’s hard to describe the feeling I get when I’m shrunken. This lady… Ms. Pattie…. is the first person I’ve ever even tried to talk to about it. At first I was glad the guidance counselor is a woman, but it hasn’t eased my heartbeat all that much. I’m not sure how to start. At this point I’m not even sure if I want to talk to her anymore. The only thing that moves my mouth is the fact that, at this point, it’s becoming more awkward to continue in silence seeing her bright green eyes piercing me.

“Well…” I force out. “Sometimes… when we’re in class…” I start, my voice trembling. “…when Mom's teaching, she’ll suddenly stop and say my name. If she thinks I’m not paying attention or something. And I hear everyone laughing… they know she’s about to take me to the bathroom and shrink me.” I stop. My voice sounds odd to me, like I’m listening to someone else talk.

“I see,” she replies gently. “And your mother is an advocate of in-shoe discipline, correct? You don’t feel like she’s treating you fairly?” she continues. After a moment I bite the bullet and quickly shake my head, looking at the floor with my heart racing and water appearing along the rims of my eyes. I’ve just stepped out of line by questioning my mother: It’s her right to do with me as she sees fit. But surprisingly, even though I’ve braced myself for the flurry of rhetoric I hear at home and at church, Ms. Pattie doesn’t scold me. Instead she just looks at me, probing me to speak again using her eyes.

“It’s just… since Mom started shrinking me… everyone makes fun of me all day… and I don’t have any friends. And if I screw up, even just a little bit, Mom shrinks me, and tosses me in her shoe,” I continue, feeling the tears welling up. It feels good to actually say this aloud, to put into words what I’ve been feeling. “I mean… sometimes… I think…” I stop.

I look up at Ms. Pattie, waiting for me to continue. I don't. “What do you sometimes think, Alisa?” Ms. Pattie eventually continues, gently.

“I… I don’t know,” I respond. Tears are floating along the rim of my bottom eyelids now. “I hate being a shrinker,” I say angrily. “I mean, it’s terrible… I hate it so much…” I finish, with a whimper.

My mom’s name is Kristie Stone. She’s in her mid-thirties: about 150 pounds, a curly haired brunette. She has also been my math teacher for the last two years, as she moved up with my grade. But honestly, I’m no longer sure if I can call it "my grade" at all. My mom being a teacher at the school is the only reason I’m even allowed to be here… I’m not technically even enrolled, as I’m a shrinker. But Mom doesn’t want to leave me at home alone all day, so I usually end up going with her and pretending to still be a student.

But it's no secret to the other students that I'm their inferior, in every way, and that I shouldn't even really be there.

I've often thought of how I would describe what it's like to be a shrinker to a normal. If you’ve ever hit the ground and had the breath knocked out of you, I guess that’s a small, small taste of it. Of being stood on, or walked on, by another, humongous person. That horrible feeling you get right after impact, when you first try to gasp for air and it doesn’t work... for a moment, you feel like you are about to die. Imagine that feeling repeating, again and again, for hours on end. Smashed underneath a giant person’s crushing weight, lost to the world underneath the flesh of a giant foot. After six years… I’m still not used to it.

“I’ve heard of in-shoe discipline and shrinkers, but I’ve never actually dealt with it before. Give me just a second, Alisa,” Ms. Pattie says. I find myself watching as Ms. Pattie goes around to her desk. I watch her make several quick searches before making some phone calls. I soon realize Ms. Pattie isn’t from around here. From her phone conversations I see that despite having heard of it, she’s not really that knowledgeable of in-shoe discipline, and to my surprise, only has a vague notion of the place of shrinkers in general in this community. That’s understandable, I guess, if she moved here from the east, since even around here shrinkers are rarely actually discussed outside of church meetings and are typically kept out of the school system. She really has no reason to have encountered one before.

I watch her become frustrated. She is always redirected, whether by phone or email, to the same legal statement:

Many common rights of individual citizens are deemed null for reducibles upon the discovery of this condition. If discovered, this condition should be reported to the local government for immediate processing.

“This just seems so... ridiculous,” Ms. Pattie frowns, as what I already knew is confirmed for her, again, and again: If she wanted to, my own mom is legally within her rights to keep me buried underneath the sweaty, gross flesh of her massive feet indefinitely if she deems it appropriate discipline. It’s protected as her religious freedom. She is legally my “owner”, and as such she can do this to me. She cannot be legally questioned if I am harmed or even die while being disciplined. And to Ms. Pattie’s surprise many of the responses she receives harshly question her decision to discuss the matter in the first place.

I can see her defeat as she encounters what is, to her at least, a startling amount of resistance concerning finding more information for me. She settles for setting me up a biweekly therapy appointment, and says she wants to help me cope with my situation. I ask her not to tell my mother, and she agrees. Today I managed to sneak into Ms. Pattie’s office early… since right now, Mom is eating breakfast with the other teachers down in the lounge, not keeping tabs on me.

Ms. Pattie is young, maybe in her late twenties. She’s older than me, and noticeably concerned for me. I’ve rarely gotten that from many people. I can’t help but imagine what it would be like to have her for a mother instead of my own pitiless mom. That’s when the thought slips into my head.

What would be like to be under Ms. Pattie’s foot instead of Mom’s? Just… I mean, I know Ms. Pattie wouldn’t even want that… But I don’t think I would mind so much if she was the one who walked on me all day…

…I can imagine her slipping off her black, stacked-heel loafer, with a grin on her face...

‘Mind if I wear you in my shoe today Alisa?’ Ms. Pattie would smile. So kind and beautiful, her long red hair flowing past her shoulders… if she was the one who was going to to smash me under her foot for hours on end, I…

I think… I’m…

...

God...

...

I’m a freak.

...That's what I am.

Was I really just day-dreaming about being trapped underneath this nice, perfect lady, the first person who has shown some concern for me in forever, in her shoe: The very thing I told her was ruining my life!? What would she have said if she knew what a freak I am...? Why did I even bother Ms. Pattie in the first place?

This was pointless. Maybe... I simply won't come back.